


Resemblance to Sense

by BewareTheIdes15



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Barebacking, First Time, Hand Jobs, M/M, Multi, Sibling Incest, Threesome, Virginity, Weechesters, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-12
Updated: 2012-01-12
Packaged: 2017-10-29 10:26:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/318886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BewareTheIdes15/pseuds/BewareTheIdes15
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam is never telling Dean anything ever again. He’s not even sure why he ever told him anything before. Not that he actually told Dean about this so much as he just didn’t deny it when Dean accused. Any which way, though, <i>dying</i> a virgin would be better than having Dean trying to pimp him out to every girl in a ten mile radius.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Resemblance to Sense

**Author's Note:**

> I originally started this as a gift fic for the xmas exchange, but it got really long, developed a girl and didn’t get finished in time. Still, I kinda liked it anyway, so I figured what the hell. I apologize in advance for daring to allow anyone to touch our boys but each other, but it’s me, so you know how things have to work out ;)

Sam is never telling Dean anything ever again. He’s not even sure why he ever told him anything before. Not that he actually told Dean about this so much as he just didn’t deny it when Dean accused. Any which way, though, _dying_ a virgin would be better than having Dean trying to pimp him out to every girl in a ten mile radius.

"Knock it off, Fidget." Dean's fingers are somehow perfectly shaped to fit into the spaces between Sam's ribs so that he gets that deep, frogged-muscle pain when Dean pokes him.

"Shut up," Sam huffs back, kicking at Dean's feet where they're tangled up with his. His toe brushes the footboard in the process almost stubbing it again. Stupid tiny bed.

Dean kicks back a little but he's obviously not trying, hitching his arm around Sam's middle instead with 'stay still' firmness.

"Coulda burned off all this energy if you'd just fucked her," his brother's voice rumbles against the back of his neck, lips dragging softly over the skin. It makes the little peach-fuzzy hairs there stand on end.

For what feels like the millionth time, Sam points out, "She called me, Stan."

"'S why you're supposed to pound her until she can't talk. Awful damn picky for a cherry."

Sam's elbow just grazes Dean's ribs, the angle all wrong to get in a good shot "Don't call me that."

Dean's in a much better position to wriggle his fingers up under Sam's arm. "Don't be one and I won't, cherry."

Writhing to get away doesn't help much since there's already no room with the two of them crammed into a twin-size together but that doesn't mean Sam can help it. His brother knows all of his ticklish spots and has no qualms about exploiting them.

By the time Dean gives it up they're both sticky-hot, probably bruised from all the knees and elbows flying, halfway wrestling on their creaky little mattress. Sam settles down again, trying to catch his breath and slow the jumpy rush of adrenaline scraping up his insides. Then Dean's hand slides into his boxers.

"Dean!" He means for it to come out a gripe but a moan gets mixed in there somewhere as Dean gets a grip around his dick - not hard, but not exactly soft either - and gives him a couple of long firm strokes that have it filling out properly.

"I'd like to get to sleep sometime this century," Dean huffs, readjusting so his free arm slides under Sam's neck. Sam is on his back now, Dean snug against his side, breathing heavily against his jaw.

All things considered, this should probably be weird. Is weird, even, but also kind of not. It's just a thing they do - two young guys trapped in the same bed half the time, why not? Not exactly like thye can avoid touching each other and it always feels better when it's someone else's hand, so it just makes sense, in as much as anything in their life bears any resemblance to sense.

After this many years of doing it, Dean knows how to get Sam there fast, the right combination of pressure and speed, concentrating on the head, dragging a nail along the ridge to have Sam throbbing and leaking in no time flat. It's not like he's ever really much of a challenge - better than he used to be, but there’s still nothing to brag about - and after tonight with that girl, _Cassidie with an ie_ , pressing up against him, kissing him... yeah, no, lasting too long is not going to be an issue.

She'd been really hot, more Dean's type than his but then Dean had been the one to practically sit her down in Sam's lap. Long brown hair that smelled like green apple shampoo, soft skin, gorgeous thick lips that felt amazing on his when she'd dragged him out behind the bar Dean had snuck him into and pushed him up against her car. It was a Mazda and Sam had almost started laughing at the thought of what Dean would say if Sam lost his virginity in a Mazda.

She had definitely been drinking, the taste of something fruity and strong on her tongue, but Sam didn't think she was drunk, at least not until she called him Stan. The first time. With a girl's hand down his pants probably wasn't the optimal time to have been correcting anything she had to say, but come on, it was his name. She could at least remember his name. But then she hadn't, again, and Sam just couldn't.

Sam has what Dean calls 'bullshit romance novel' ideas about his first time. Sam refers to them as basic moral standards. He doesn't expect candles and rose petals or anything like that, he gets that even for normal people it's usually all rushed and fumbly somewhere inconvenient. It isn't even that he's waiting for true love or anything like that, he's got enough experience by now to have figured out that even if he did take the time to get to know someone like that and really fall for them, Dad would having them moving on to a new town in a few weeks anyway. So he's not really stressing that much about Dean throwing random girls at him to see what sticks, but he doesn't think it's too much to expect that she care enough to actually remember his name.

"Sammy, c'mon, give it up." Dean's voice husks against his throat, swept away by broad stripes of Dean's tongue up under the hinge of his jaw. Dean's been into teeth since that girl in Wichita three years back, but Sam's prefers tongue, wet velvet heat right at that sensitive spot they both have. In his more introspective moments, sometimes Sam wonders if that’s just a nerve thing at all people have or if it’s some kind of weird genetic anomaly they share. If it’s messed up that he knows enough about Dean’s hot spots to wonder about it in the first place. This isn’t one of his more introspective moments. Between Dean's hand and Dean's mouth and how worked up he's been all night, Sam hasn't got any choice but to do as he's told.

For all that Dean can be a jerk sometimes, he's always gentle with Sam like this, working him just long enough to ride out the aftershocks without letting it dip into too much, tight grip slick and hot with Sam's come as he catches it on his fingers, wipes the remainder off on the side of the bed because Dean has issues with hygiene. He even cups his palm against Sam's balls through his boxers after just the way he likes, warm, soft pressure that keeps him floating after the high mellows.

“D’you want?” Sam mimes a sloppy ‘jack-off’ sign that doesn’t promise a lot for his coordination at the moment. No point in lying to Dean about the quality on offer.

“Nah,” his brother mumbles, nosing into the space behind Sam’s ear, his breath ruffling Sam’s hair. His dick is still a hot, firm line against Sam’s hip, rocking just a bit, more like instinct than anything. “Just sleep.”

Sam worms his arm into a more comfortable position, trapped between his side and Dean’s stomach, spreads his legs a little more so that the hollows of their knees match up where his leg is shoved between Dean’s and for the second time tonight, does as he’s told.

***

Sam’s not expecting that to be the end of it, which is just as well, because it’s not. There’s that set of twins in Hope Springs and Emily Courdray from his calculus class in Wilmington though it’s pretty obvious which Winchester’s trigger she’d like to pull. If he thought it’d shut Dean up about it, he’d just say he’s gotten with one of them, but there’s always something off about it when he’s working up to with them like wearing shoes a half size too tight and Dean’s too good at reading him not to see it on his face before Sam ever gets a chance to lie.

It’s getting increasingly embarrassing, though, having his big brother crusading against his virginity to everyone under thirty with tits. And that’s all before… well…

Sam’s curled up in bed in their motel du jour. It’s close to two in the morning and Dean’s still not back. Not that extraordinary for a Saturday but still, Sam’s known what’s out there for way too long in way too much detail to ever not worry, even if his brother’s just been busy fucking some girl he picked up at the bar down the road.

Except maybe he wasn’t busy with some girl all this time, because then there wouldn’t be any reason for Sam to hear the high tones of a woman’s voice muffled through the door after the Impala rumbles its way home.

It isn’t completely unheard of for Dean to bring girls back to their room – Dean’s mostly been going for college chicks these last few years and with that comes a lot of dorms and roommates that don’t allow for much privacy. It also isn’t exactly something Sam looks forward to since he has to pretend to be the world’s heaviest sleeper – as if they haven’t dug up corpses who couldn’t sleep through the noises Dean’s dragged out of some of his ‘dates’. He’s even covertly watched a few times – nothing he’s proud of, but true nonetheless. Let’s face it, a girl’s got to be pretty horny or pretty hammered or both to go back to a stranger’s motel room and fuck three feet away from his teenage brother, so none of them ever really seem to notice the audience. Or none of the girls anyway, Sam’s got his suspicions about Dean’s oblivious act but it’s not anything that either of them seem too inclined to talk about in the harsh light of day.

Yeah, Sam’s gotten a lot more practical sex-ed from living with his brother than any of a dozen middle schools ever taught him.

His back is to the door when Dean and the girl fumble their way in, steps a tottering, unsteady. There’s the tinkle-ring of Dean’s belt buckle, whump of fabric hitting the ground, the low meaty noise of one of them bumping into the wall, both laughing, not nearly quiet enough considering at least one of them is supposed to believe that Sam is asleep.

But then maybe that’s not what’s up either because instead of hearing the springs squeal on the other bed – it’s not actually their father’s bed since he only slept here that first night but it still kind of gives Sam the creeps to think about Dean having sex there – he’s nearly bounced off of the mattress when the full weight of Dean and Whoever-the-hell flops to the mattress beside him.

Oh, he cannot be serious. Dean cannot expect Sam to lay here and pretend to be asleep while he fucks some random chick _in the same bed_. He doesn’t care how plastered the girl is, that’s just insane. He can, like, go wait in the car or something. Or hell, make them go to the car – Dean’s got a full-on fetish for the thing anyway.

Except.

Except except except.

Except there’s a hand that’s way too small to be Dean’s traipsing up the line of Sam’s thigh through the sheet and there’s a feminine voice that is so far from Dean’s it’s practically in another stratosphere purring out, loud and clear, up close and personal, “Saaaaam.”

For what has to be at least ten whole seconds, Sam’s heart stops beating altogether.

He turns over onto his back slow like he’s scared of getting caught even though the girl obviously knows he’s awake by now, knows his freaking _name_ , to find two sets of eyes watching him, gold-green and a clover-honey ringed in dark, smoky shadow.

The girl is spread out over Dean’s boxer-clad lap in a bra and panties, both made of black mesh that does nothing to hide how pretty and supple and slim she is; small perky tits and bare down below in a way that’s hot like porn and somehow wrong all at the same time.

There’s a half full flask of bourbon Sam recognizes from where Dean pretends to hide it at the bottom of his duffle as if any of them has had an ounce of privacy in Sam’s entire life. Amoeba patterns of light the same color as the girl’s eyes tracing over Dean’s stomach when he unscrews the cap - _Oughtta turn off the lamp if you’re gonna pretend to be asleep, kiddo_ \- takes a sip, holds it out for the girl to lick the taste off the rim of the bottle, motions the glass mouth at Sam more like an order than an offer.

Mascara’d lashes flutter at him over this soft-mouthed smile that Sam’s seen a hundred times on things that plan to eat him alive.

What ought to happen is her clutching at her chest to cover up or Dean telling him to get lost or Sam actually wising up and getting the fuck out without anybody needing to tell him so. What does happen is Sam laying there like he forgot what his outer extremities are for, just staring as the both of them stare right back.

The girl has this laugh, a giggle except an octave too low and a dictionary too meaningful, that spills out into the air before she says, “Nice to meet you, Sam,” and wiggles the fingers of the hand not plastered to Dean’s bare chest at him. It makes Sam feel squirmy, hot and heavy-headed like he’s been drinking already or crying his eyes out.

Dean motions the bottle at Sam again and he hasn’t got enough brain function to do anything but reach out and take it. Corn-sweet liquor slash-and-burns a path down his throat, blooms out in his chest like a moth fighting free of its cocoon and settles down for a nap warm in his stomach. Then Dean’s palming the girl’s butt, his big, thick fingers pressing dents in the meat of her ass and making her look all tiny and delicate on top of him. Sam kind of chokes on the alcohol fumes in his lungs.

“Sammy,” Dean says, just enough snap to it to break Sam’s focus out of radio silence. He’s motioning with two fingers, the other two and the thumb still cradled around the girl’s hip. “Whaddaya say to our guest?”

The girl gives him that smile again, adds in a lip bite this time and- and rolls her hips back into Dean’s hand, down against Dean’s crotch. It takes two tries and another hit off the bottle before Sam can make his voice work enough to get out, “Hi.”

***

Alright, see, here’s the thing: Sam’s been a teenager long enough to have figured out that he tends to make crappy decisions when he lets his dick do the thinking and even crappier ones when he lets _Dean’s_ dick do the thinking so there isn’t exactly a good excuse for why Sam’s following Dean’s lead on this one.

Here’s the other thing: as crappy as the Sam-Dean dick-thinking decisions are, those decisions are made infinitely worse by the addition of alcohol. Unfortunately, the original crappy dick-thinking decisions also make it much more likely that alcohol will get involved at some point like a tragic, poor-planning infinity loop.

Which is how Sam ends up six shots into Dean’s bottle of special stash bourbon, sprawled out on the bed next to his brother with Leah – she’s a Gender and Sexuality Studies major at the local university, not that Sam has an everloving clue what that means aside from explaining why Dean insisted on her telling Sam about her senior project - kind of halfway on top of them both. It’s sort of complicated.

Her hands basically only leave Sam’s body, his sleep-tee rucked up over his stomach and his boxers bunched weirdly where she had run her hand up one thigh to feel his muscle, in order to touch Dean’s. It’s starting to occur to him that maybe that’s weird – for Dean to be here, in his underwear, when he evidently expects Sam to try and score with this girl. Then again, it’s kind of weird for Dean to have ostensibly fetched him a girl to have sex with, so Sam’s not sure why he’s surprised after the last few weeks at Dean being way too involved in him getting laid.

Right now Dean’s way too involved in finding out if Leah had her tonsils removed as a kid. Which is maybe kind of weird too if Dean expects Sam to be the one to have sex with her.

Short, red-painted fingernails scratch at his skin, light enough to make the muscles in his stomach clench when her fingers trail down, pausing to scrape through the light trail of hair arrowing south from his bellybutton, lower to pick at the elastic waist of his boxers. He can see the way her lips shine when she and Dean part, the slick pink curl of tongues, the wet sound of their breath mingling together. It’s hot. Weird hot, but he’s starting to get used to that.

"So Dean's been telling me about your problem," she says, all lazy and soft and still a sharp enough U-turn that Sam feels like he ought to check for whiplash. Her hand slips down those last couple of inches to cup between Sam’s legs, feel up how not exactly soft his dick is through his underwear. "Doesn't feel like a problem to me."

How Sam is supposed to talk with her doing that, he doesn’t know, but the indignation does allow him to choke out, “It’s not- ngh. Not a problem!”

It comes out a little less outraged than Sam legitimately has a right to – being a virgin is not some kind of sexual dysfunction! – but this is definitely not Leah’s first time handling a dick.

“I told him,” Leah is suddenly much, much closer to Sam’s face, lips near enough to Sam’s that he can taste the lingering sting of whiskey there, his own mouth opening like a previously untested reflex though she stays just out of reach, “That you might just need a little moral support. You know, someone you trust,” the tip of her nose brushes his, the very edge of her lip painting a cool spot at the corner of Sam’s mouth with his brother’s spit, “there to see you through it. Take care of you.”

Sledge hammer heavy, those words – drilled in from a thousand repetitions in a thousand different forms - hit Sam, slam him right through the floorboards and just keep on going. _Take care of Sammy_. Holy fuck, Dean wants to have a threesome?

Sam fully intends to say just that too, but his mouth just hangs there unhelpfully until Leah leans in and starts sucking on his bottom lip. He can’t really do anything to reciprocate, what with his brain having just evaporated from inside the depths of his skull, but she doesn’t seem particularly put off by that.

It is at least a little vindicating that Dean’s face goes from hot interest to dumbstruck too when Leah’s slim hand cups around the back of Dean’s neck and starts to pull him in.

“Whoa, hey, hang on!” A broad palm plants itself against Sam’s chest, shockingly hot through his t-shirt and just a bit sweat-damp. Like Sam might not be the only one here starting to get worked up.

Leah pulls back a couple of inches and stares like she just noticed Dean was here. “What?”

“He’s my brother,” Dean says incredulously. A good point well made.

Voice flat as she draws out the word, Leah says, “Yeah.”

“So I can’t… he’s _my brother_.” At his side, Dean’s hand does this flappy thing like he’s waving off invisible flies.

Unamused, Leah shoots a pointed glance around the bed – the three of them in various states of undress, the liquor, spill of clothes out of duffles scattered on the floor all around their queen bed, the obviously untouched state of their dad’s bed making it clear exactly what their sleeping arrangement is. Given the evidence, Sam can’t really blame her skepticism.

He’d bet money that this is going to be the end of it, Leah’s going to walk out right now muttering about ’what did you think was going to happen?’ and Dean will go back to playing horseshoes with Sam’s virginity at every girl they pass and this will just be something that they laugh about one day. Or, alternatively, never ever bring up again. Either one works, really. But Leah seems to like screwing with Sam’s head.

“Yeah,” she’s practically purring again now, breath hot against Sam’s cheek as she traces the tip of her nose over his skin. “Your sweet, innocent baby brother.”

 _Sweet_ and _innocent_ come off of her tongue like a curl of smoke, a stain on the air that’s impossible not to breathe in. The low-grade buzz of it settles into Sam’s bloodstream, making a cocktail out of the alcohol already slithering around in there and screwing up the argument in favor of Dean’s point – because it really is a spectacular one. Or maybe that’s just the really distracting way Leah’s nibbling at his bottom lip. Either way, he just ends up kissing her again instead.

“Pretty, soft mouth,” gets smeared against his chin as her mouth trails over his jaw, makes its way up to his ear. It’s tough to pay attention to that when her fingertips are stroking slow circles into his balls, tougher yet to make heads or tails of the words she murmurs into him, low and filthy. “Big, hard cock. All this untouched skin just waiting for somebody to defile it. That’s what you wanted me to do, right Dean? Mess your Sammy up, get him dirty?”

Dean looks like he can’t decide whether to be pissed off or turned on. Sam would say he can relate but the way Leah moves her hand, fingers slipping into the split of his boxers to get skin on skin, he can’t seem to get any farther than turned on.

“We can all get what we want, Dean.” There’s something about the way she keeps saying his brother’s name that’s grating on Sam’s nerves, but those red-lacquered nails of hers are teasing at his slit and sending creeping vines of fire up through his belly so he can’t really pinpoint why that is just now. “Quid pro quo.”

A part of Sam wonders if Dean even knows what that means – he’s fine at repeating rituals, but he’s never really mastered understanding Latin as a language the way Sam does – but Leah’s hand reeling him in again seems to get the message across and this time Dean doesn’t fight it.

Not much, anyway. He stops a couple of inches shy of actually making contact with Sam’s mouth, pulling a face like he’s screwing up his courage. Any second now Sam’s going to come up with a way to say something, anything, to actively participate in the discussion of how very fucked-up this is, but Leah’s made this tight ring around the crown of his cock, milking precome steadily out of it to coat her fingers slick and then Dean’s…

Dean’s kissing Sam.

It’s not really a good kiss. Sam’s mouth is too open – she is really really really good with her hands, especially when she takes the one off of Dean’s neck and starts rolling Sam’s balls instead – and Dean’s lips are pressed together tight so he’s basically just mashing his mouth against Sam’s top lip. It’s not weird like it ought to be either, though, not in the ‘it’s like kissing my brother’ kind of way even though this is the literal, textbook definition. It’s just Dean’s mouth, cushy and sort of nice, smooth from his closet Chapstick addiction. Sam thinks he could maybe get why so many girls – people, if he’s being honest – get so hung up on Dean’s lips.

“That’s it,” Leah breathes, right up close again – chick is hard to keep up with. Then her mouth is there, nuzzling at the side of either of theirs, painting them both wet with hot swipes of tongue. He can feel Dean’s mouth open for it, the brush of his tongue meeting up with hers in the middle with that same soft, filthy noise and he doesn’t think before he gets his own into the mix, just wants to feel it.

From there Sam sort of loses track of what’s happening, all lips and tongues, skin rubbing together and sexy little noises. At some point Leah must pull back again because the mechanics of it are suddenly easier, just two mouths to fit together and it’s definitely Dean that is currently sucking on his tongue unless Leah spontaneously grew stubble in the last couple of minutes.

Dean kisses soft and deep, one hand cupping the back of Sam’s head and the other cradling his shoulder. It takes a minute for him to work out that Dean’s kissing him the same way he likes the touch of a mouth on that spot on his neck – where Dean’s thumb just happens to be at the moment; damn, Dean’s good at this – when he gets off. After that, it’s not a far leap to try and reciprocate, throw in a little teeth to get Dean’s breath going rough.

It hits him what is probably way too late that all of the annoying, distracting squirming he’s having to do is because Leah is maneuvering him out of his clothes. And that’s like, hi, hello, little different there. But apparently once teeth get involved, Dean gets kind of intense with the kissing so Sam hasn’t got a lot of room to say anything about it. Or, you know, thinking about it. If there are awards for kissing, Dean should win all of them.

The thing that’s never really occurred to Sam before is that spending extended portions of your life helping somebody get off means that you know them pretty well. Add to that living in the same space, breathing the same air, being all up in each other’s business practically 24/7 and it’s a recipe for knowing exactly how to push one another’s buttons. They’ve used it for years with pranks and dumb crap, he’s not sure in retrospect why neither of them ever thought to put it to better use.

For example: now that’s Sam’s boxers have moved on to Whothehellevencaresland Dean’s fist finds its way to Sam’s cock, leaking humiliatingly copious amounts against his stomach, to flick at that bundle of nerves with just the right pressure to make Sam’s skin shrink a couple of sizes. He’s got one finger curved around the flare of the head, just stroking at it like a kitten, setting off a fireworks display in Sam’s nervous system. Not many people would know to do that.

A growl he only recognizes as his own because he felt it rip out of his throat gets crushed into Dean’s mouth as Sam eats at his lips. Dean loses a matching one when Leah grabs Sam by the hair and pulls him back enough to drag his t-shirt over his head. Over Sam’s shoulder, he shoots this look at her that makes Sam’s stomach bottom out and his dick twitch at the same time. It makes him worry for a second about reminding Dean that she’s human, please don’t shoot her.

Doesn’t matter though because Dean’s back on him after a tense moment. Or rather, Sam’s back on Dean seeing as his brother has pulled him over to straddle his lap. Well that’s new.

Now it’s Dean’s hand wrapped up in Sam’s hair, angling him however he feels like, which is kind of hypocritical considering how pissy he just got about Leah doing it but is also kind of shut up, brain, just go with it. Seems like Sam probably shouldn’t be enjoying this manhandling thing nearly as much as he is, but considering the situation, he’s trying not to examine anything in too great a depth.

Dean’s cock is sticking awkwardly out of the front of his boxers, burning hot against Sam’s when they meet, familiar despite the fact that they’ve never touched like this before. Something gets mumbled against Sam’s lips but he loses the substance of it when a shiver trickles down his spine, fire and ice. From the way Dean’s hand is suddenly on the small of Sam’s back, tugging him in closer, he can only assume it was something positive.

The way Dean touches him is kind of… the word ‘delicious’ springs to mind. Hard and soft all at the same time like he needs Sam to be as close as he can possibly get and then closer still, like Sam is something very valuable and secret that he needs to memorize. His fingers fit into the spaces between Sam’s ribs like they were built for it – never thought he’d be grateful for that - little touches that should tickle but instead just turn up the volume in Sam’s nerves. The tiny scar he got from being thrown into a fire-end on his third hunt gets traced with the cool kiss of Dean’s ring. The mole on the back of his skull that hides under his hair felt out, fondled. All the weird little things that make Sam who he is, sought out and highlighted. It’s intimate and strange, nothing like anytime he’s even had a girl touching him. Nothing like anyone but Dean.

Sam’s only real saving grace when Leah’s finger, slick and without warning, _shoves up into his ass_ is that his mouth is so full of Dean’s tongue that the ‘meep’ sound he makes gets squashed unrecognizable. It does not, however, prevent him from trying to crawl all the way up onto Dean’s shoulders.

Whether Dean grabbing Leah’s hand and pulling her finger free makes it better or worse, Sam isn’t entirely sure. The burn eases a little when Dean rests two of his own fingers protectively over Sam’s hole instead, but then he’s stuck with this squirmy sensation when his body can’t seem to decide whether getting away would make it better or pushing back and being filled up again.

"What the hell?" Dean snaps, too close to Sam's ear for how loud it comes out. If looks could kill they'd be looking for a place to burn Leah's body about now. Sam can't really see anything but her shape in his peripheral vision from his angle - his angle being sprawled naked all the fuck over his big brother's lap which is a little more awkward right now than it was just a second ago - but she doesn't appear to be keeling over so that’s something. Salt and burn is not particularly high on Sam’s to-do list at the moment.

She also doesn't appear to have noticed that Dean is wearing his 'don't fuck with Sammy' face because her hand goes right back to the curve of his ass, painting wet trails with whatever it was that she used to slick her fingers up.

"Relax," and there's really nothing about her trying to thread her finger between Dean's to get back inside of Sam that makes him want to relax in any way at all. "You guys are so hot together, you don't even know. Just let me get him opened up and we can do this right. You fuck Sam, Sam fucks me, get all of his firsts taken care of at once, yeah? Then maybe we can switch it up. We've got all night."

"Hey, I-" Sam doesn't know where the hell he's going with this since his brain started crumbling somewhere around the idea of Dean's dick in his ass and the realization that his own apparently has no qualms about leaking like a faucet over that concept. Luckily he doesn't actually have to figure out how to finish that statement because Dean's cutting him off with, "Get out."

Yeah, obviously Leah has yet figure out what she’s dealing with here because instead of hopping to it and doing what Dean says when he uses the Dad voice she makes a face at him and says, “What?”

“Get. Out.” Dean growls it, which ought to be enough warning, but clearly isn’t since Leah still doesn’t make a move to back up out of Sam’s space.

Later they’re going to have to have a talk about all this manhandling bullshit, Sam’s almost bigger than Dean now, he can’t just be jostled around and set wherever his brother feels like it. Unless someone’s rubbing his cock at the time – then all bets are off. Not that any of that’s stopping Dean from sliding Sam off of him and putting a hand on his shoulder for a silent ‘stay’. Then he’s got a hand on Leah’s arm instead, practically dragging her off the bed.

She must be too shocked to react or something because Dean’s got her almost to the door and is shoving clothes at her before she manages to do anything but stare dumbly between the two of them. It must kick in then because she suddenly starts struggling, outraged complaints escalating to shouting when Dean shoves her outside and slams the door in her face. Sam kind of wants to yell back that she should put some clothes on instead of beating on the door, their motel’s not exactly in the nicest part of town, but then she goes and starts throwing around the word ‘freak’ and Sam sort of stops caring if everybody in the parking lot sees her tits.

Dean, apparently, doesn’t give much of a shit either since he turns back to Sam without so much as a flinch.

“You ok?” he asks, still hacked off but probably not at Sam, so that’s alright, he guesses. His head’s still spinning between the alcohol and the making out and the craziness of whatever just happened. And, ok, maybe thinking about the making out might not be the best idea just now because he’s still mostly hard and very much naked and now it’s just him and Dean. His brother whom he just groped extensively.

“Yeah,” Sam nods, trying really hard not to focus on how plump and pink Dean’s lips look or the shape of his hard on bulging against the front of his boxers. Oh, this is so much weirder without a girl in the room.

“Flip over.”

It’s not really a request, but Sam stutters, “What?” anyway in an attempt to jump-start his body back into breathing.

Dean repeats, “Flip over,” and now maybe a little bit of the snarl in his voice is for Sam. He’s not giving a lot of choice in the matter anyway – that’s kind of becoming a theme for the night – palming his hip and rolling him over onto his stomach. The protest Sam makes is only a token one, too much of his focus on the way his belly is swooping and going molten at the same time.

“What are you…”

Thick fingers pull apart Sam’s ass cheeks and the air in his lungs turns to solid rock. It feels like his whole lower body lurches with the nervous twitch of his exposed hole.

“Dude, I saw her fingernails, gotta make sure you’re not bleeding or something.” Wet and nasty-sounding, Dean spits, a hot spatter right there on Sam’s freaking asshole and he wants to bury himself in the mattress and die.

“Dean!” His voice comes out an undignified squeal when he feels the blunt press of Dean’s fingertip against him, the exact same move he uses under Sam’s arms to make him wriggle, with almost the same effect.

“Breathe out,” Dean commands and on reflex Sam does.

Just like that Dean’s finger slips in, bigger than Leah’s but less shocking. It doesn’t exactly feel good, but it doesn’t hurt the way it did a minute ago. At least it gives his muscles something to bear down against, which is a relief as much as it isn’t.

Dean feels around slowly like all of Sam’s secrets are written out in there in braille. The sensation is trippy, makes him shudder and twitch, push back against the intrusion when he’s still not entirely sure he wants it in there at all.

Carefully Dean slides his finger almost free, presses back in with a second that makes Sam’s heartbeat stutter.

He doesn’t get out more than, “Wh-“ before Dean’s sliding his free hand up the length of Sam’s spine, down again, soothing strokes that help him breathe through the freaky stretch.

“Couldn’t tell,” Dean answers the unspoken question, “just gotta make sure.”

It’s two now, feeling Sam up from the inside, and that shouldn’t make a difference but it does. And not even close to the way he would have thought. He feels full-up, heavy on the inside as his Dean’s fingers are made of lead, but it isn’t as bizarre now. Actually, there’s something about the slow, gentle motion of it that rides way too close to the edge of comforting for Sam to even consider dealing with. Every now and again, one of Dean’s fingertips presses into something that has Sam pawing at the sheets, helpless to stop it.

That’s probably what makes him ask, “H-have you done this before?” like a dumbass; interrupted signals to the brain.

“Anal?” Dean smirks. Sam can’t see it, but he knows anyway, can picture the curve of Dean’s mouth in his head. Definitely not something he needs to be thinking about now that his cock has fought its way back to steel-hard and dripping beneath him, not with his lips still tingling from getting friendly with Dean’s. “No big deal. Way overhyped.”

“Yeah?” Sam tries not to laugh outright because telling your brother that anal does not feel overhyped at all while he’s got his fingers in your ass is probably a faux pas. Then again, grinding back against his knuckles probably is too but that’s not keeping Sam from doing it.

“Yeah. I mean it’s all tight and everything, so that’s awesome,” Christ, he can feel Dean shrug. That’s so messed up. He really doesn’t want to come like this. “But most chicks hate it so you end up feeling like a douche.”

Sam’s starting to get the feeling that Dean’s not really checking him for injuries any more. Or if he is, he’s being motherfucking thorough. The fingers in him drag out about halfway, rough second knuckles rasping against the rim where he feels hot and swollen, push back in and spread.

Sam can’t hold back the, “Oh,” that jolts out of him, another that follows, low and growly, when his body forces his brother’s fingers back together again.

Dean’s breath shudders against Sam’s spine, trailing up to cool the little trails of sweat forming on the back of Sam’s neck. This whole night Sam’s felt ten steps behind everything that’s happened, but there’s something in Dean’s voice that makes him think that right now he’s not the only one. “You don’t hate it, though, do you, Sammy?”

Any shot Sam had at answering vaporizes when Dean’s fingers crook and just dig in at that place, flint-on-flint spark along Sam’s nerve-endings. All he chokes out is, “That.”

“That?” Dean repeats, taunt running all through it as he scrubs the pads of his fingers against Sam again.

If Sam could get a second to round up his braincells he might feel embarrassed about how desperate he sounds when he nods, “Yeah, that. Don’t- fuck, keep doing that.”

“Feel good?” Now there’s no doubt Dean’s screwing with him. Sam would haul off and deck him but he’s pretty sure he’s shaking too hard to hold himself up.

He mumbles something that’s really just noise but must come across as an affirmative because Dean spits again and, God, it’s really gross and it makes Sam’s dick leap anyway. That’s as much of a heads up as he gets before there’s another finger pushing up into him.

This one doesn’t burn as much as the last but that just makes the stretch more pronounced, all of his focus on the way his body opens up and pulls in strange ways. He doesn’t even realize he’s stopped breathing until Dean drum-taps that shivery perfect place again and all the air explodes out of his chest on a punched groan.

“Maybe I shoulda let her stay,” Dean hisses, not sounding any better off than Sam in the control department. Murmurs like an afterthought, “Didn’t know you’d like taking it up the ass so much.”

All Sam has left in his vocabulary is, “Dean.”

Maybe Dean doesn’t know he’s saying all of this out loud because he keeps on in that same distracted voice, “Like it better this way, though.”

“Dean,” Sam whines again, repeats it when nothing else will form on his tongue. Just a string of his brother’s name broken up by random dips and shifts in the noises eking out of Sam’s throat.

Dean’s all over his back, just enough space for his hand to move between them, fingerfucking Sam’s ass because they’re way too far into this to call it anything else.

A rough thumb prods into the space behind Sam’s balls, the heel of it digging into the tendons there to buzz through Sam’s body like a lightning rod rammed up his spine. That familiar tight ache is clenching low in his gut, rock-slide tumbling faster and faster toward the edge every time Dean moves. The hard jut of Dean’s cock scrapes against the back of Sam’s thigh, wet trails where Dean’s soaked through his shorts, short jabs against the meat of his ass when Dean’s hips buck in time with his hand.

Sweat has turned the space between them slick and flooded it with the hot smell of their bodies, so familiar and so fucked-up-soothing that it makes Sam want to die because all he can think is _she was right, it should be Dean, Dean should be my first._ He’s not sure if it’s worse to think it in the first place or that that’s the thing that shoves him over the brink.

Sam would swear he can hear his nerves sizzling, too overloaded to do anything but fry like bacon in a pan as Sam’s body snaps taut and he comes and comes and comes all over the sheets underneath him. Every flex of muscle has him clutching at Dean’s fingers, feeling up the shape of them on all this untouched flesh until he feels like there’s going to be an imprint of Dean inside, a permanent mold of his brother made from Sam’s own body.

The sheets are cool against his damp face as Sam scrubs his cheek against them, tries to remember what it was like when he couldn’t feel his pulse in his fingertips. It’s jarring to find himself empty, body squirming around the unsatisfyingly hollow space where Dean’s reclaimed his hand. Probably to jerk of, Sam thinks, feeling the skippy rush of Dean’s breath where he has his forehead braced on Sam’s shoulder blade. He’s making bitten off little sounds, a counterpoint to the soft creak of the mattress springs and the slap of flesh on flesh.

“Fuck me,” Sam croaks, almost shocked that he formed the words out loud instead of in his head, except being shocked would take way too much energy right now.

Energy which Dean, apparently, still has plenty of because he stops cold, couldn’t be more of a deer in the headlights if Sam tossed him out in the middle of the highway with antlers on and Sam doesn’t even need to see his face to know it.

Dean’s voice is like cracked sugar when he spits out, “What?” Because all the cool kids have been doing it.

And Sam’s kind of over the repetition thing so instead, he forces his unsteady arms to lift him, pulls his knees in and nearly knocks his brother off the bed to get his legs spread and his ass in the air. Not a lot of room to misconstrue the point.

“Sammy,” Dean rasps like the word is strangling him. His hands fit to the backs of Sam’s thighs, thumbs dragging through the come going cool on the insides of them and up until he’s palming Sam’s ass.

Considering the whole rest of this insane night, it doesn’t make much sense that this is what makes Sam blush or Dean hesitate. His hole is doing its performance again, fluttering like it knows Dean’s watching and wants to impress him. He’s hot there, this sting that says he’ll be feeling this for days and Sam nearly sobs when the thought makes his spent dick jump.

Experimentally, Sam swivels his hips against Dean’s hold, fighting down the warmth rising in his cheeks with the totally wrecked moan Dean lets out. Fingers dig in harder on his skin, blunt nails scraping just slightly against him.

“Look at me,” demands Dean and Sam – unlike certain people who won’t be mentioned – is smart enough to crane his head back and do it right away.

Dean looks like he does sometimes when a hunt ends too suddenly, whatever their after makes a wrong move and bites the dust but the adrenaline keeps on raging with no outlet to pour into. His hair’s a mess, sweaty and spiked up over flushed skin. His mouth is swollen, even moreso than when Sam last saw because Dean’s always been just as fixated on his mouth as everybody else, unable to keep from biting and licking his lips.

Sometime Sam’s going to have to sit down and figure out if he’s been repressing this burning need to kiss his brother all this time or if Dean really is the human equivalent of crack and he just got addicted to it this fast.

Wide-blown green eyes lock on Sam, hungry and scared and dead fucking serious. “You don’t get to take this back, Sam,” he says, winces when he swallows like it’s barbed wire he’s choking back. Watches his fingers flex on Sam’s hips and looks back up again. “Mean it.”

Sam can’t tell if it’s a request or a command, but the answer’s the same either way. “In or out, Dean.”

Dean smirks, smacks Sam’s ass, thank God, thank fucking God, chooses ‘in’.

Having a dick in him isn’t really the same at all as taking fingers. It’s blunt and wide and goes in way farther than Sam would’ve thought physically possible. He’s waiting to feel it in his lungs any second now.

Dean lets out a wounded sound when his hips meet Sam’s ass even though Sam’s pretty sure he’s got the hard job here, thanks. It doesn’t really hurt, not more than Sam can handle anyway, but the way it feels good is bizarre, like pulling at the edges of a new scar, hurty-good with a trip wire of sweet strung through it. The shift when Dean pulls back just a little tips the scales, makes it hurt more and feel better, pushes blood into his cock like a salt-packed shotgun round.

That’s about the time it hits Sam – and when it does, it grinds him into the pavement and kicks away the dust leftover – that he’s having sex with his brother. His brother and he are having sex. Sex, it’s being had by Sam and Dean.

Wow, that’s kind of awesome.

“Shit. Sammy,” Dean pants between sharp nips along Sam’s back. Not exactly a surprise that Dean’s a biter, but it is sort of a stunner that Sam is seriously into it. He floods hot right under his skin, like somebody took on ice cream scoop and emptied him out, filled in all the leftover space with boiling gasoline and matches.

For long enough that Sam’s nearly dying trying to choke back whimpers, Dean just grinds against him, churning Sam into butter with the swivel of his hips, the hard, relentless scrape of his cock. He licks at the back of Sam’s ear, craning for his jaw to lave that spot and Sam goes crashing to the mattress, abandoned by his stupid quitter arms.

That must have been what Dean was waiting for – Sam’s so far beyond analyzing his brother’s motives it’s not even funny – because then Dean’s getting an underhand grip on Sam’s shoulders and pounding into him, pulling him back onto every rough thrust.

The pace is punishing, throbbing through Sam’s marrow like a second heartbeat. His skin stings where Dean’s hips smack into his ass on each push, entire body twitchy and oversensitive and there’s something so very deeply wrong with him because he likes it like this – that he just has to lay here and take it, too soon to even get it up all the way again, his own come smearing into his chest as Dean moves him back and forth on the sheets.

Dean’s chanting, “Fuck, Sammy, Sam, ‘s so good, so fuckin’, Sam,” like he doesn’t even know he’s doing it and something about it makes Sam tingle. He’s feeling way too powerful here considering he’s basically just having his ass used.

Shameless noise rattles out of him with every breath. All on their own, his hips start to push back into Dean’s. Swiveling a little makes sparks catch behind his eyelids, chest locking up on the sudden assault of pleasure. He’s starting to get hard again, hurting more than it feels good but there’s no way to stop it, especially not when Dean rakes a hand down his side to palm his hip, his cock, lines of fire exploding in its wake as he strokes Sam achingly back to stiff.

“’S it baby boy,” is gasped against his ear, “Gotta come for me, gotta, so fucking good, jus’ let me have it.” Dean’s face is wet with sweat, hot mouth painting burning trails over the shocky jump of the muscles in his neck and back, peppering quick bites that are bound to leave marks.

Dimly, Sam’s been aware this whole time that Dean’s not wearing a condom, but it really hits home when he tries to make his muscles tighten up around his brother, feels the hard twitch of Dean’s cock that matches the moan that wrenches free. He doesn’t even know why, it just does, inexorable and vicious-sweet; just knows that Dean’s going to come inside of him and it’s suddenly the only thing he can think about.

Sam’s too close to the edge from last time, from the sheer lunatic hotness of Dean touching him, fucking him, and how perfect it is, how ridiculous it is that he never thought about it before. He’s still thrumming, minutes-old orgasm curling up at the base of his spine to get flirty and Dean’s hand knows him too well to do his stamina any favors. A little knead, a little stroke, a little suck-suck-suck at that spot, that fucking spot – next time they’re doing this face to face, even the goddamn playing field – and he’s a hopeless case already, the first sharp stabs of it hitting him just in time for Dean to drag him backward onto his cock and do something insane with his hips.

The spurts of come that pump free are weaker this time, not enough of a chance for his body to load a new clip, but the wave of heat that nails him inside would knock him for a loop if he wasn’t stuck so far on his brother’s cock he might never get it out again. Just the clutch of his ass around Dean is enough to bend reality a couple of degrees, every square inch of his body humming so strong with it he’s got to be giving off light, glowing orangey-white like the coils in a space heater, and all of it centered on the sweet, thick, weight of Dean and the electric counterpoint of his own emptying dick.

It goes on for days, ages, fucking eons, shaky-hazy and blissful. Hardly anything else registers outside of it at all until Dean pulls him back against his chest, crushes them together and seizes up. He’d sort of expected to feel it, a molten spill in there around Dean’s hardness, but it’s only the throb where each pulse pulls at his rim and a soft echo of it running deep, the way every tiny thrust eases up a little more, slicker. So hot Sam can’t even cope.

Slowly he becomes aware that they’re lying on their sides. Dean’s spooned up behind him, one hand cupping Sam’s balls, the other draped over his stomach. If it wasn’t for the steady ache in his ass and the fact that they’re basically naked, he could almost mistake this for an ordinary night.

The more he thinks about it, the more Sam’s starting to suspect that he should have seen this coming.

“You ok?” Dean asks after a minute. It isn’t until that moment that Sam realizes how quiet they’ve gotten.

He grunts a sound without much inflection but nods along with it so Dean must get the message.

Cautiously – Sam can feel the tension in his body – Dean edges his hips back until his soft dick pulls free. Stings like a sonofabitch, unexpected enough that Sam lets a gasp slip past him. Immediately the hand on his belly starts circling, an old comfort habit that just won’t die. Sam’s not about to admit it, but he’s never been more grateful for it.

He’s too warm and prickly cool at the same time, worked up too high to really think about coming down. Dean is breathing softly against his skin, curled in close enough that their sharing body heat but with enough of a sliver of space that the sweat between them is starting to dry. It’s nice, safe-feeling in a strange way.

“You gonna freak out?” is a lot more like a whisper, cooling down the hairs pasted to the back of Sam’s neck. There’s a tickle dripping down the curve where his ass meets his thigh and it doesn’t take a lot of guesses to figure out what it is. The fancy flip Sam’s stomach does over it suggests he’s not going to stop finding it hot in the imminent future.

Still, he hedges his bets with, “I don’t think so,” because vague is better than going back on his word when it comes to Dean. Vague is kind of where Dean lives. “You?”

No surprise when his brother comes back with, “I don’t think so,” in return. At least they’re being honest with each other, Sam guesses.

Rolling onto his back feels like more trouble than it’s worth, between the sore muscles and the bites along his shoulders that flare with a vengeance. Right up until the moment he actually lays eyes on Dean and it all balances out, the shocked-scared-hopeful resting on the surface of Dean’s skin like an oil slick. Years of hunting and Sam’s never once seen him as wrecked as he looks just waiting on Sam to say something.

“So, can we make out some more before we go to sleep, just in case?” he suggests, all lit up inside when Dean bursts into a grin. This probably isn’t going to be getting any less weird in the near future, but they’ve never been tentative with one another and that’s one thing at least that Sam can live without.

Dean’s knuckles trace up Sam’s sternum until his hand flattens out against Sam’s jaw, tilts it up with one fingertip prodding at that secret place where he can already feel the flare of a bruise forming. The smell of sex is thick on his when he leans in a little gets his mouth hovering over Sam’s, just out of reach. Teenage libido or not, there’s no way Sam can get hard again yet. He really wishes someone would tell his dick that.

“Yeah,” Dean smiles, “we can do that.”


End file.
